the riverbed

I walked down to the river Sunday

and understood the definition

of hyperventilation.

It was hot and there was a couple

walking slow in front of me

and kissing.

I slipped off the grassy avenue and

over the sandy bank and into

the riverbed.

I felt the hard stones under my bare feet

and tried not to think about

the pain.

I knew I could pick one up and draw it

across the inside of my thigh where no one

would see.

The thought scared me but it came down to

the fact that I didn’t want to give you

the satisfaction.

I really don’t think you understand the extent

to which I remember everything

about us.

I really don’t think you understand the extent

to which I wish this

hadn’t happened.

If I could peel this off of you like some

ill-fitting second skin

I would.

If I thought I could hack you out of this coffin

I would gladly suffer

the splinters.

I can’t do anything without the memory of you

sliding under my hands and into

my veins.

For the first time in my life I thought about

opening them up and letting you

flow out.

Thank God I’m too sensible to be of

any use to

you anymore.

Do you want to know the worst part of this?

I can never touch you

ever again.